That was a good launching pad,
the sandstone circle at the cemetery
where we hung off the marble hands of Jesus,
his blank eyes aflame with fire.
The sun set, washing that northeast Montana sky with
vermillion then orange until we were sated
and the grumbling in our distended bellies
quieted as the cool stars emerged, shimmering
just beyond reach. Food was not the object,
because the cupboards were empty.
Color was everything –– we ate it like food
drank it in the way dry, parched skin takes in lotion.
Mother’s oil palette, covered in Saran Wrap, stood ready,
pools of paint waiting for the image that would lift her
out of herself, lift us, out of this hole
where policemen knocked
and the lights went out.
Jennifer Thornburg is mother to five grown children and lives in Bozeman, Montana with her husband and super-model cat. She teaches creative writing at Montana State University. Jenny agrees with Faulkner, “ The past is never dead, it’s not even past,” and that writing the past empowers a better future.
*Feature Photo by Jennifer Thornburg